


Dirty Dishes

by PaintedVanilla



Series: days on end [12]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Parenting, Cheating, F/M, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Knives, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 11:25:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11147442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla
Summary: Dolley wasn’t sad, but she was crying. Her tears were falling into the sink. She had already washed the dishes, she just needed to rinse them. She needed to dry them. She needed to put them away. She needed to stop the dryer. She needed to turn the TV off. She needed to know who John was texting. She needed to die.





	Dirty Dishes

Dolley always did the dishes.

It was her job, from the time she turned ten, to do the dishes. After every meal, no exceptions, she had to wash them, dry them, and put them away. Now, almost fifteen years after she had been assigned the job, she still refused to let anyone else do it. Dishes were her job and she felt guilty if she let anybody else do them; she felt guilty most of the time anyways, but if someone else got away with doing the dishes in her own home Dolley would not be able to stop thinking about it for three days.

Once, Martha had come over for dinner and right before they finished, John called her. She had picked up and he held her on the phone for almost thirty minutes because some family issue Dolley couldn’t recall now. At the time it had interfered with plans. Dolley had gone out on the balcony to deal with it and when she came back inside Martha had already done the dishes. Granted it was only two plates and two forks, but it was the only thing Dolley could think about for almost two weeks. She still thought about it sometimes.

Right now everything was loud; the dryer was going and the sink was dripping and the TV was on in the living room. Dolley couldn’t remember what they had been watching. She wasn’t paying attention. John was on his phone the whole time; he was texting someone. Who was he texting? His mom? His sister? The other women?

Dolley wasn’t sad, but she was crying. Her tears were falling into the sink. She had already washed the dishes, she just needed to rinse them. She needed to dry them. She needed to put them away. She needed to stop the dryer. She needed to turn the TV off. She needed to know who John was texting. She needed to die.

Dolley swallowed; she didn’t want to die, but it would be easier. Maybe not for her, but for everyone else. It would hurt, but nobody would mind very much. They would probably be relieved.  _ Oh, good, we don’t have to deal with her anymore. Oh, good, she’s finally gone. Oh, good, she finally took the hint. _

Dolley didn’t want to die, but she wanted to disappear. She wanted to fold in on herself and take up such little space she ceased to exist. But there was no delete button on her life, so killing herself was the next best thing. She couldn’t help the people who were forced to take care of her in the past, but she could save the people who would have to help her in the future.

Once, when she was fifteen, Dolley’s parents gave her thirty dollars to go to the mall with Martha. This was a generous act in itself, and Dolley knew now her parents were expecting her to bring back at least twenty five; she didn’t know that at the time. Dolley bought a backpack that ended up costing her twenty nine dollars and seventeen cents. She already  _ had  _ a backpack, but it was black, and this one had little flowers on it, and Martha said she should get it if he wanted it so bad. When she got home and her parents asked for change, Dolley didn’t know what would be worse; presenting them with seventy one cents or nothing. She hesitated for too long, though, so her parents assumed it was nothing.

Dolley showed them the backpack and their reaction was the most embarrassing and terrifying thing that had ever happened to her. She remembered every word, to this day, verbatim, and she still lived by them, because she was scared of forgetting them.  _ You already have this, why do you need this? You already have this, why do you need this?  _ They wouldn’t stop telling her, over and over:  _ you cost so much, you cost so much, you cost so much, you cost so much, you cost so much, you cost so much,  _ **_you cost so much._ **

Dolley locked herself in her room and cried her weight in tears. She found a pair of scissors and slit the insides of her thighs because she deserved it. She was a bad daughter. She was a bad person.  _ She cost so much. _

Dolley still had scars, to this day. If John had noticed them, he hadn’t said anything. He probably didn’t care; she didn’t blame him. She didn’t care very much about herself, either.

Dolley was a bad person. She was a bad daughter; she was a bad friend; she was a bad girlfriend. She cost so much. Martha had to do the dishes. John was cheating on her.

There was a knife lying in the sink. She had used it to cut carrots. She needed to rinse the dishes. Or, she could kill herself, and nobody would ever have to deal with her again. But she should finish the dishes first. It would be rude to leave them for John.

Dolley picked up the knife.

“Hey Doll?”

She dropped it back in the sink; it clattered, loud in her head, and she turned towards the living room. She still had tear stains on her cheeks, “What?”

“Are we still going to that dinner thing with Thomas and Martha?” John called from the living room.

Dolley was too frazzled to recall what the hell he was talking about, “Why do you ask?”

“Martha just texted me, she needs to know.” he told her.

_ Martha texted him not you, Martha texted him not you. _

“Yes,” she told him, turning back to the sink; she stared at the knife for a long moment.

She turned the water on. It could wait. Some other time. She needed to rinse the dishes.

**Author's Note:**

> nothing like a little good old fashioned coping


End file.
